All Mercenaries go to Hell
by D McVetty
Summary: Mole and Kenny became best friends after their stint in Hell together. Years later, in High School, Mole has to go on a three week job and Kenny has to cover for the absent Mercenary. Complete
1. Mexico

**title ; **All Mercenaries go to Hell

**chapter ; **Mexico

**characters ; **Kenny, Christophe

**setting ; **High School

**rating ; **T for swearing, sexual references, and Christophe

**disclaimer ; **I quite obviously do not own South Park or its characters

**disclaimer 2 ;** I do own what is written here, so please don't steal it

* * *

It started as any other Tuesday would. Screaming and hollering in the kitchen, his brother and sister fighting over scraps of bread, his mother and father throwing things at each other. In Kenny's life, it was normal. Nothing out of the usual.

Crawling off the floppy, dirty, ancient mattress that was his bed, Kenny picked his orange parka from the floor. Tears and rips all over the fabric showed its age, but he wasn't one to complain. It still kept him warm in the bitter cold of Colorado, and there wasn't much more he could ask for. Tugging it over his head, he slipped into his worn blue jeans. They were a hand-me-down from Stan, of all people. Apparently, his friends did care about how unbearably poor the McCormicks were.

Hopping down the stairs, over empty boxes of waffles and the occasional empty box of poptarts, he stumbled into the kitchen. Grabbing his worn school bag off the floor, he tossed it onto his shoulder. Kenny swiped a slice of bread from Karen's hands, dancing out of the way before she could hit him. As silent as she was, she only glared daggers at him. Too bad for her, Kenny died of physical causes. Laughing to himself, he hurried out the door before anyone could stop him. He did his damndest to get out of that house. Just because it was his normal didn't mean he liked it.

Holding the bread between his teeth, he pulled his school bag off his back, riffling through it as he walked. Papers shuffled around, pencils and pens fell to the bottom- most sharpened to their final centimeter or empty of ink. Finally pulling the PSP out of the bag, he hitched the strap up his shoulder and turned on the handheld consol. He had one, and only one, game. It got boring after a while, but he liked it anyway.

Munching on the bread, mashing buttons, and thinking to himself as he walked to school, he realized it was another boring day. Kyle and Stan were lab partners in Bio2, and Cartman had partnered with Butters. _Everyone_ partnered with Butters. The kid was practically a scientific genius. With that many problems at home, he'd have to focus on something. Kenny focused on boobs. Big, soft, squishy boobs. Bebe's boobs, for example. He had partnered with Bebe, both out of necessity and want. The girl was smart, sometimes, and she had great tits. What wasn't to love?

Gulping down the last of his bread, he almost looked for more. The life of the poor was unfortunate. Feeling a rumble in his stomach, he punched it lightly. "You just ate," he complained. To take his mind off the emptiness, he went back to playing his game. Three blocks from the school, he heard footsteps behind him. Plenty of people walked to school, so he ignored it. Why would he pay any attention to some freshmen hurrying to class?

"Cocksucker! 'Ey, Kenny! Wait!"

The familiar voice made him turn around in astonishment. Tucking his game into his back pocket, he stared for a long moment at the dirty, brown-haired teenager running down the sidewalk. He game to a stop, gasping to catch his smoker's breath, looking worse than when he had last showed up at Kenny's house. New bruises covered his face, and dark circles framed his mysterious brown eyes. "Mole? Where the hell have you been?" Kenny asked.

"I was een Mexico," he said, waving off the question as if it were normal. "Who are you partnered with in Bio2?"

Blinking a few times, Kenny shook his head and started walking to the school, Mole falling in next to him. "Bio2 hardly matters," he said sourly. "You've been missing for three days. What were you doing?" Mole periodically left for days on end, off on his little revolutionary missions with Gregory. Luckily for South Park, Gregory had found their quaint mountain air far too plain for the likes of him. He'd moved back to his fancy school, leaving South Park monumentally less smug than before. This, however, meant that Mole often vanished from time to time, seeking out Gregory and their crazy adventures.

"I said; I was een Mexico. Zer was business to take care of," Mole said, pulling a pack of cigarettes from his jacket. Offering one to Kenny, who refused, he shrugged. Placing one between his lips, he struck the match and lit up, breathing in the toxic smoke with as much relish as a man enjoying fine wine. "If you _really_ must know, Kenny, zer were beautiful girls _everywhere. _Tits and pussy just hanging out. Ah, I love ze nude beaches," he hinted, smoke curling out his parted lips as he grinned.

"How doesn't your mom find out?" Kenny asked, trying not to let on that beautiful girls made him think about a trip to Mexico himself.

"I tell her I am at your house," Mole said simply, shrugging.

Kenny paused. "You tell her you're at my house for three days?"

"Yes, why not?" Mole asked. "Your house is comforting."

"You'd be the only person to say that," Kenny said, laughing.

"What? Zer are walls and ceilings and floors," Mole said, prodding Kenny in the side. "It is a nice change from ze ornate, sculpted shit in my own house."

Kenny laughed, shook his head, and plucked the cigarette from Mole's lips. "These are going to kill you," he chided, sucking in a tiny mouthful of smoke. Handing it back to the tall mercenary, he pulled his PSP out of his back pocket. Puffing smoke, he turned the game off and dropped it in his bag. "What do you tell the principal?" he asked.

"Tell her what?"

"Why you were missing."

"I tell her I had ze cold," Mole replied. "Zen I hand her a forged doctors note."

Arching his eyebrow, Kenny cleared his throat. "You should think about making me one of those sometime."

"I don't zhink zey accept _'gone to hell_' as a valid excuse," Mole pointed out, a sly grin on his face. Since forming a friendship with Kenny, he'd certainly smiled more than before. Perhaps having someone worse off than himself made him realize God wasn't the cocksucking bitch he thought He - wait, no, He was still a complete asshole.

"Hey, fuck you," Kenny said, smiling. Checking both ways before crossing the street - something he'd done since getting hit by a bus and being driven all the way down to Mexico - he hurried across. The school grounds were drug free, which meant tobacco couldn't be used there either. When he was safely on the sidewalk, he turned to see Mole standing on the other side, leisurely smoking the slender white stick. "Come on! You've been gone three days, you don't need to be gone more!" Kenny called.

Rolling his eyes, Mole dropped the cigarette, snuffing it out under his heel. "Coming, mozer," he teased, jogging across the street in front of three cars that had to slam their brakes for his safe passage. Shoving his hands in his pockets, he looked at Kenny. "See you in Bio2," he said, turning off towards the main office.

Watching the kid for a moment, Kenny finally shook his head and walked to the High School entrance. Everything was connected in this tiny town, but he didn't mind. At least these four walls had food in them. And friends. And things to take his mind off the void life at home. And there was always Bio2, where Mole could be counted on to cause a disturbance of some sort. Yeah, school was pretty good to Kenny. He even had a few chances at girlfriends, whenever he wanted them. Apparently, dying made you sexier.


	2. Naked Ladies

**title ; **All Mercenaries go to Hell

**chapter ; **Naked Ladies

**characters ; **Kenny, Christophe, Bebe, Stan, Kyle, Butters, Cartman

**setting ; **High School

**rating ; **T for swearing, sexual references, and Christophe

**disclaimer ; **I quite obviously do not own South Park or its characters

**disclaimer 2 ;** I do own what is written here, so please don't steal it

**author's note ; **Thank you all, again, for your reviews. They mean so much. I love reading them. Also, This story isn't going to be too terribly long. Maybe four more chapters at best. Eventually, it will make some kind of sense, too. Thank you very much for reading. Please enjoy.

* * *

Very few things had changed since grade school. Despite his slowly waning death rate, Kenny consistently took the safer classes. After testing his luck and joining Wood Shop with Mole, Kyle, and Cartmen, he wasn't about to try it again. According to witnesses, the saw blade had cut him to pieces like a rabid tiger. He had heard other stories, though he wasn't sure which one he disliked hearing the most. Morning in high school consisted of low-risk classes. Home Economics, for example, where women were still taught that they were below the common man. Or British Literature, where he cheated off Craig's tests and copied his papers word for word from the internet. Safe classes had minimal damage potential. Strangely enough - taking gym was actually a bad idea. Archery, swimming, and ping-pong had all proved to be fatal at one point or another in his school career. Don't get started on the Donkey Basketball event they held one year. Kenny still heard the braying in his nightmares.

While sketching in his notebook during British Literature, he noticed he had begun to doodle naked women in various positions. Grinning ear to ear, he started to draw a large penis in the center of the page. Hearing a voice clearing behind him, he nearly jumped out of his skin, turning and looking at the teacher. He quickly covered the page with his hand, smiling sheepishly. "Good morning, Mrs. Sanders!" he said cheerfully.

"Kenny, are you drawing porn again?" she demanded, snatching the paper out of his notebook. After looking it over, she crumpled it in her fist, disgusted. "Am I going to have to send you to the principal again?" she asked, exasperated.

"You don't _have_ to," he suggested sweetly. Several classmates were observing the conversation. They appeared to know what was going on, snickering behind their hands and laughing at Kenny. Two girls smiled shyly at him, and he winked back. Any chance to pick up chicks, and he was all over it. Especially young freshmen. The ones who had only heard heroic stories of his actions in bed.

"Kenny!"

Snapping back to attention, he looked at the literature teacher. Her overweight face, hooked nose, and dreadful over-bite killed any sexual mood Kenny could have been in. Groaning, he picked up his notebook. "I'll be going to the principal's office now," he said as he got up.

Craig gave him an '_I warned you_' look, shrugging and going back to his work. The two girls giggled, waving at him as he left the classroom. He smiled back, a charming sight that hadn't been seen until high school. He would have liked to tell people he had braces, but the simple truth of the matter was that he didn't like people, his brother's hand-me-downs were too small, and the orange parka was warmest with the hood pulled as tight as possible.

Paging through his notebook as he walked down the hall, he found several _far_ more sexually explicit drawings in pages just before the one Mrs. Sanders had ripped out. If the old croon had found those, he didn't want to know what she would have done. Possibly expelled him on the spot. This was his third offence this semester, so it surprised him that she took it so well. Maybe it was pity for being so poor. Maybe she had artistic taste. After all, Kenny had to say his naked women looked _very _good.

Walking past the cafeteria, he heard a clang. Pausing, he looked through the dish deposit, noting the lights were all off. Rolling his notebook up, he stuffed it in his back pocket. Another clang, followed by a soft curse. Looking around to make sure there were no school staff coming by, he climbed over the counter, dropping to the floor silently. Darkness welcomed him in the small kitchen, making navigation quite difficult. Curiosity killed the Kenny.

Bumping into a stack of silverware, he tried to catch it before it fell. He caught the base, but the top rack of silverware clattered out on the floor. "Shit," he grumbled, bending down to pick up the forks and spoons. A light flashed on, pinpointing on his face, and he jumped, blocking his eyes with his hand. "Hey!" he exclaimed.

"Kenny? Is zat you?"

Getting to his feet, Kenny realized he was brandishing a fork. Looking at it for a second, he dropped it in the pile and wiped his hands off on his pants. "What are you doing in here?" he asked as Mole turned off the flashlight.

"Shhh," Mole whispered, motioning in the darkness for Kenny to follow him.

Thoroughly confused, Kenny picked his way through the murk after the mercenary, trying not to knock anything over. Almost running into Mole, he realized they had stopped in front of the ovens. Thinking it was a bad Jew joke in the making, part of Cartman rubbing off on the eccentric mercenary, Kenny almost opened his mouth. Then, he noticed the look on Mole's face. Something sparkled in those mischievous eyes. "What did you do?"

"Zey preheat ze ovens before looking een zem," Mole informed him, a devious grin on his face. Ever since he decided to spend more time at school and less time abroad as a mercenary, he'd been doing small, crazy things with different parts of the school. Maybe it kept him sharp. Maybe he was just insane. "Zer are four pans of brownies in each oven."

"Brownies," Kenny said skeptically. He just didn't get it. Sure, he didn't get a lot of things that Mole did, but this? This just didn't make any sense, whatsoever. What were brownies going to do to the cafeteria ovens? People _liked_ brownies. Mole wasn't in the business of making people like things.

"Yes. Brownies." Mole pulled an oven open, twisting the handle back. "Ze brownies will spill over into ze bottom pan. Zey will be unable to feed us hamburgers for lunch."

"So we don't have lunch tomorrow?" Kenny asked, still confused.

Mole grinned, shutting the oven and pulling Kenny to the freezer. Opening the latch, he pushed Kenny back, making sure he didn't die in the freezer or some nonsense. Pointing to a box of _Uncrustables_ jelly and peanut butter sandwiches, he smiled. "Zey will have to feed us zis."

"All this for sandwiches?"

"It costs ze beetches money." Mole closed the freezer, motioning for them to walk back to the dish deposit. "And eet will be funny."

Picking his way back through the kitchen, he couldn't help but shake his head. Mole had been craving those silly sandwiches since getting them the last time the ovens broke down. That he would go this far to get them was too priceless. Crawling over the dish counter, Kenny made sure the way was clear. If he got in trouble for drawing porn, Mole was sent to the office twice as much for the things he did. Motioning that it was clear, he watched Mole jump over the counter. Not a moment later, the bell rang for third period. "So much for the office," Kenny said with a sigh. He'd go down there later and ask what they wanted him to do. They'd long ago given up hope on him, so they probably would say something along the lines of _'apologize, and write a few sentences about how its not going to happen again._'

"You were drawing porn again?" Mole asked, eyeing the notebook tucked into Kenny's back pocket.

"Actually, it was just a bunch of naked Mexican chicks. And a penis. But Mrs. Sanders stole it," Kenny explained, looking at the clock. Three minutes until Bio2. Bebe would be a total bitch and demand answers. Kenny, of course, didn't have any. He had spent the night staring at his ceiling in his boxers. Answered to the Bio2 lab were _not_ on his ceiling.

"Ze beetch uses zem to get off," Mole said, shrugging.

"Dude, I do not want to think about that," Kenny said, making a face. Turning into the Bio2 room, he took his seat at the back of the class. Mole sat in the very corner, where he could see everyone, and began taking notes on everyone who came into the classroom. Kenny, on the other hand, took out his notebook and began drawing naked women. Again.

Bebe sat in front when she came in, giving Kenny a dirty look. Maybe because she knew he had no answers. Maybe because he was poor. With Bebe, you could never tell. Butters sat in front of Kenny, looking back for a moment to see what he was drawing. He quickly turned away from the drawings, red in the face, and stared straight ahead. Kenny snickered, closing the notebook as the teacher came in. No doubt Mrs. Sanders had informed Mr. Morris of the drawings by now. The school was quite small.

Kyle and Stan sat next to each other several seats up. Since Kenny had started hanging out with Mole, Stan had started ignoring him. It probably had something to do with the fact that Mole had picked Stan to bitch at through most of the Terrance and Phillip fiasco. Kyle, however, had a hard time looking at Mole. After all, the kid had held him as he died. That had to mess up your brain after a while. Kenny died weekly, at least. It wasn't a big surprise to him anymore. No one really cared when he died, because he would always come back at some point.

The bell rang, and Cartman slid into the classroom just as it trailed off. Taking his seat next to Butters, he had the sort of look that meant he was planning something. At least he wasn't planning things with Kenny anymore. It was something to be grateful for.

Standing at the front of the room, the teacher cleared his throat. "All right, class. Partner up. We're going to read the section and go over your answers from yesterday."

Kids picked up their stuff, moving desks and switching places. Kenny didn't move. Bebe didn't move. They had a stare off for several moments, until they realized the class was nearly done arranging themselves. Finally giving up, Kenny swiped his notebook from the table and plopped down in the seat next to the blonde, big-titted woman. She dressed the worst out of all of them, but she put out the least. The irony of it frustrated him more and more each day.

"Did you get the answers?" she asked, looking at him expectantly.

Pausing for a moment, Kenny shook his head. "No. I was too busy staring at my ceiling last night," he informed her truthfully.

Bebe looked confused. She probably filed it in the _'what poor people do for fun'_ category of her brain, if her brain were that advanced. Ignoring it, she said curtly, "I figured you wouldn't. So I did it for you." Sliding her notes over, she looked at him expectantly.

Looking down, he noticed the perfect handwriting, in ink, with pretty flowers doodled in the margins. Arching an eyebrow and looking up, he just stared at Bebe. "What do you want me to do with them?" he asked.

"Copy them," she hissed, pushing the paper closer as the class got quiet. The teacher had finally called attention to the front of the room.

Unsure of the generosity Bebe was showing, wondering what she wanted in return, Kenny took the notes, copying them every other word into his own notebook. He listened to what the teacher said, only dimly, because there wasn't much to hear. He didn't care about Bio2. He took it because it sounded safer than Chemistry. Believe it or not, it was a real downer to yourself and friends when you died every day.

"We're going to be dissecting frogs tomorrow," Mr. Morris informed them at the end of the book reading.

Sliding the notes back to Bebe, Kenny frowned. Frog dissection sounded dangerous. Then again, he saw danger around every corner. It was a real curse. But, like a typical boy, he couldn't pass up a perfectly good opportunity to do something gross. He would have to make a mental note to attend class, which meant he had to avoid danger at all costs.

Unfortunately, the teacher had spied their exchange of notes. Walking to their table as he talked, he stopped next to Kenny. Instinctively covering the notebook, Kenny attempted to keep it from the Bio2 teacher. "Exchanging notes to Bebe?" Mr. Morris asked. "Notes are against the rules in my class. Would you like to read what you wrote out loud?"

Kenny shook his head. "No. Not really," he answered.

Taking the notes by force, the teacher looked down on the page. After skimming it a moment, his face reddened. Snapping it shut, he glared down at Kenny. "Office. Now."

Groaning, Kenny got up from the chair, taking the notebook from Mr. Morris. "Yeah. I know."

Twice in one day. He was on a roll. As he left class, he saw Mole giving him the thumbs up. Of course that crazy mercenary would find his imminent detention amusing. Anything that bucked the system was good to him. Butters was asking Cartman what Kenny had done to deserve going to the office, and Kyle was trying to explain to the blonde exactly what Porn was. Kenny wished he could have been there for the look on Butters' face when the kid got it, but he had to go to the office. The teacher had given him another glare and had almost threatened him again.

High school.

Never a dull moment.


	3. Oh My God, You Killed Kenny!

**title ; **All Mercenaries go to Hell

**chapter ;** Oh My God, You Killed Kenny!

**characters ; **Kenny, Christophe, Stan, Kyle, Butters, Cartman

**setting ; **High School

**rating ; **T for swearing, frog dissection, Cartman and Christophe

**disclaimer ; **I quite obviously do not own South Park or its characters

**disclaimer 2 ;** I do own what is written here, so please don't steal it

**author's note ; **First rule of business: Thanks so much for the reviews. They mean so much to me. Even a single word means a lot. Second rule of business: This is the first update of the new schedule! I've recently moved, so I wont be able to update on Tuesday. I'll put up the new chapter on Wednesday after the Cable guys (or chicks) set my internet up. I do hope you enjoy this chapter, and I hope you feel the mounting tension. Oh, yeah, sorry about the spoiler chapter name. I couldn't think of anything better. Now, please do enjoy this chapter. I loved writing it.

* * *

...

Laying on his bed, staring at the ceiling, Kenny sighed. Days at school passed so slowly when he had to stay in the office. It happened more frequently, now that he had entered high school. Apparently, Mr. Garrison had gone rather soft on them as fifth graders. Kenny missed those days. He died more frequently, but he had more fun. Now, everything was schoolwork, schoolwork, schoolwork. There was little time for anything else. Except sleeping around with any girl in the school he could get his hands on. He always made time for that. There was nothing better in the world than sex. He was poor, and there wasn't much else he could enjoy for free.

Speaking of poor, they had waffles for dinner again. With the rising price of the damn things, Kenny thought his parents would wise-up and buy some TV Dinners. Apparently, they were too poor for those, too. Waffles for dinner, bread for breakfast, and whatever they could manage to bum for lunch. At least they didn't get fat. Kenny would dare anyone in South Park to find _one_ obese poor person. He knew for a fact they didn't exist.

Flipping over to stare at his wall, he heard something scratching on the roof outside his window. Sitting up, he looked over as Mole pried the window open, slipping inside and closing the window behind him. Maybe it was just what he did, crawling through windows whenever he wanted to visit people. Maybe he just didn't know what a _door_ was. Either way, Kenny had learned not to lock his window after the first time Mole had broken it off trying to get in at two in the morning. The kid never slept. Or maybe he had a bad case of sleepwalking. _Or,_ Kenny's favorite theory, Mole was a compulsive thief who had a burning desire to break into any locked item he found, be it window, door, or trunk. He didn't drive, so cars were safe from him - as long as they didn't have anything expensive on the seats.

Yawning, Kenny waved Mole over. "Knock-knock," he mocked, rolling his eyes. "So why are you here?" It wasn't often that Mole showed up in his window without some kind of crazy request.

True to his form, Mole sat on the bare plywood floor, crossing his legs and taking out a smoke. "Someone eez making snuff films," he answered in his business voice. The voice that he used any time he had a request, or any time he wanted to keep things impersonal.

Kenny knew this because he had been Mole's friend for almost eight years.

"Really," Kenny said, disinterested. "So what is the Great Christophe going to do about it?"

Blowing smoke, Mole glared. "Zis is serious, Kenny. Zis is not ze fucking comedy hour," he snapped. Biting the end of the cigarette as he thought, he looked at the quaint room surrounding him. Kenny didn't have the money for paint, and he didn't have money for carpet. The room looked like one of those _'Habitat for Humanity'_ shacks. Mole had lived in one for a month, he would know. Finally, he shifted his weight, leaning over, elbows on his knees. "Eet's a job. Gregory referred me. Eet is mandatory."

Kenny arched an eyebrow. "Gregory." Shaking his head, Kenny looked at the clock. It was a clock he had gotten for his tenth birthday, after being late for school seven weeks in a row. It flashed on and off sometimes, and the display missed numbers frequently, but it worked. "You said you were done with Gregory until the semester is out."

Mole waved his concerns away. "I know what I said," he complained. "Zis is important. _Very_ fucking important."

Kenny snorted. "Why not point them in my direction? Let 'em snuff me. I'll be back in the morning."

Mole looked agitated, but he quickly covered it up. "Zat is not ze plan," he said firmly.

"So what is the plan?"

"Notzhing you need to know."

Staring each other down, Kenny turned his eyes away in defeat first. "Fine. What do I need to do?" he asked, giving up. There was no arguing with Christophe when he went into his 'Mole' state. When he was business, he was business.

Breathing in, Mole paused. Letting smoke float out his mouth as he spoke, he said, "I need you to cover for me. Say I am at your house, so my mozer doesn't worry."

Kenny noticed something different in Mole's voice. Frowning, he leaned forward on the bed. "For how long?" he asked suspiciously.

Mole hesitated. Something he never did, something that startled Kenny. Catching himself, Mole answered, "Tzhree weeks."

"Three weeks. Are you fucking _crazy_?" Kenny asked, bewildered with the time frame. Mole rarely left for longer than a week, and when he did, it was to visit Gregory. "Dude, I cant cover for three weeks. They're going to suspect something eventually. What could possibly take you three damn weeks?" he asked, irritated with the request.

"Eet is a big job," Mole answered. "If you're too much of a pussy, I'll get someone else to do eet."

Kenny bristled at the thought. "Shut the hell up. I'll do it. But you _owe_ me."

"Whatever you want," Mole answered.

It was too easy. Kenny paused, attempting to find something Mole hated more than God. Something he would resist at all costs on any other occasion. Staring him down for any signs of reluctancy, he said, "You have to bring me to a Radiohead concert."

Making a face, Mole sighed. "Done."

Too easy.

"Is zer anytzhing else?" Mole asked.

"When are you leaving?"

"Sunday."

"Are you going to church with your mom?"

Disgruntled, Mole sneered. "Mozer asked me to. I told her God ees a fucking beetch. She sent me to my room."

"And then you came here."

"Zat is how eet happened, oui."

Gnawing on his finger, Kenny settled back on the bed. Something didn't sound right. The mercenary gave in too easy and he wasn't barfing up enough information for his blonde coverup. "You're more trouble than you're worth," Kenny observed.

Puzzled, Christophe blew smoke out his parted lips, not catching the joke in Kenny's voice at first. Rolling his eyes finally, he smiled. "Oui," he answered.

...

"Come on, Butters. Its just a frog spleen, you chicken shit."

"I don't think-"

"Thats the problem, Butters, you shouldn't _think_. Just eat it. I'll give you a dollar."

"Eric!"

Cartman looked up, Mr. Morris looming over him ominously. Smiling sweetly, Cartman hid the detached frog spleen from the teacher. "Yes, Mr. Morris?" he asked.

Staring sternly, he looked at Butters for a moment before turning back to Cartman. "If I hear one more complaint from Butters today, I'll be sending you to the principal's office."

"Of course, Mr. Morris," Cartman wheedled, a large, fake grin plastered on his face.

Kenny rolled his eyes. "He's just going to do it again. _Fat ass_," he mumbled under his breath.

Bebe smacked him in the arm. "Don't swear at school!" she warned. "Pay attention to our project."

'_Our project_' consisted of Kenny holding a sharp scalpel, prying the frog's ribs apart and poking around inside as Bebe '_ewwed_' and '_icked_' over his shoulder. She was _terribly _helpful. Kenny poked at a bubbly, round mess with the end of the scalpel, effectively causing the frog's mouth to gape open in an after-death reflex. Bebe gasped and said '_disgusting_' so loud, half the class came over to see what happened. Huddling around the desk, they watched as Kenny pushed at the bubble, causing the frog to open and close its mouth.

"Oh, ew, that's gross" Wendy said, rolling her eyes and moving out of the group.

Looking quite torn between the awesome spectacle of a frog moving after death and the prospect of yet another chance to impress Wendy, Stan gave Kenny an apologetic look. "That's really sick, dude," he said.

Kenny rolled his eyes. "You don't know what _cool_ is anymore, Stan."

Cartman shouldered Bebe out of the way, ignoring her protest. "Dude, that is fucking weak," he complained, bumping into Kenny as he leaned over.

Feeling the scalpel slip, Kenny tried to grab it, missed, and cursed as it popped the bubble he had been poking at. Liquid sprayed out, catching him in the eye. Before falling off his stool and writhing in agony, he had time to think, _"Oh, not again."_ As if thinking it would help, Cartman tossed a vile of water on Kenny.

"Wash it off!" Cartman shouted, more happy than concerned. Like usual.

"Dude, you just tossed bacteria all over him!" Kyle said, pulling the vial from Cartman's hands.

Kenny knocked over the stool, hitting the table and causing the scalpel to fall onto his face. He stopped moving, causing the whole class to take in a collective breath and hold it.

"Oh my god, dude."

"Cartman, you fat ass! You killed Kenny!"

"You bastard!"


	4. Sunday is Sinday

**title ; **All Mercenaries Go To Hell

**chapter ;** Sunday is Sinday

**characters ; **Christophe _"Ze Mole"_, Kenny

**setting ; **High School

**rating ; **T for swearing, smoking, and Christophe

**disclaimer ; **I quite obviously do not own South Park or its characters

**disclaimer 2 ;** I do own what is written here, so please don't steal it

**author's note ; **Sorry for the late update, just moved into a new apartment and I just got internet. Also, Christophe does not have a last name, so I borrowed a last name from another user here on FanFiction. Hope they don't mind, because it's a fantastic last name. Thank you all for your lovely reviews, and I hope I keep you reading until the end.

* * *

He came back on a Sunday.

In all fairness, the only reason it was anything to note was that Sunday happened to be the day Christophe was leaving for wherever-the-fuck he said he had to go. It didn't mean much, in the long run of things, but Kenny wanted to see the mercenary before he left. There were several things to talk about before the three week long period the mercenary planned on being MIA. Unfortunately for Kenny, there were few places for them to talk on a Sunday. By the time Kenny had made it to his house from his so-called _'respawn'_ point, Christophe had already been there and back. Kenny had no choice but to go to the mercenary's humble abode.

Ringing the doorbell, he jumped in surprise when Mrs. Moliere popped the door open in her Sunday Best.

"Oh? 'Ello, Kenny. Christophe can not come out to play, 'e 'as church today," she said apologetically, her french accent far thicker than her son's.

Kenny raised a finger, about to tell her he only wanted to speak with Christophe for a moment, when Christophe showed up in the doorway. Dressed in his own Sunday Best, he moved his mother to the side gently.

"He ees here because he wants to come to church witzh us," he intervened, glaring at Kenny.

For a moment, Mrs. Moliere seemed to be debating. After a somewhat pleading look from her son, she sighed. "Okay, zat ees fine. Just... please behave."

Kenny stared in dumfounded wonder as Mrs. Moliere left the doorway, continuing her morning rituals. Christophe waved a hand in front of Kenny's eyes, scoffing and placing a cigarette into his mouth. "What are you here for?" he asked, puffing smoke.

Kenny shook his head. "Going to church, apparently," he said sourly. "You look like a fucking moron."

Christophe rolled his eyes and pulled Kenny inside. "You look brand new," he observed in irritation. "How was hell?"

"Like you care," Kenny growled, sitting on the couch. "We need to talk."

"About?" Christophe asked, letting the cigarette hang from his mouth as he picked up several French magazines and placed them on the end-table. Seeing him in such a normal role, Kenny had to suppress a laugh. The mercenary did all sorts of dangerous, life-risking activities, yet he still cleaned up the living room when guests were over. Even guests that had been there hundreds of times before.

Taking a deep breath, Kenny prepared to announce his question. At that prime moment, Mrs. Moliere showed up in the doorway, a smile on her bright face. "Eet ees time to leave," she told them. "We must 'urry now, or we will be late."

Christophe quickly doused his cigarette, stuffing it in the back pocket of his nice black slacks. "Coming, mozzer," he responded obidiently, motioning for Kenny to get up. As they walked out of the house, Christophe leaned towards the death-prone teen. "We will talk later," he whispered.

...

"And on that night, Jesus said to him, Go forth -"

Scuffing his foot on the carpet floor, Kenny tuned it all out. He'd stopped going to church after seeing that Satan wasn't the bad guy they made him out to be. When you spent half your time with Satan's brooding, enmotastic son, Church just didn't make you think anymore. Not that it ever had. If there were a God, which Kenny knew there was by experience, then why would he let death hound him, constantly bringing him back for more? There was no reason for it.

"...rest through the night. Amen."

Christophe sucked air between his teeth, no doubt wanting to pull his neatly combed hair out at this point. It always got better. After listening to the old man prattle on about a petty God, he had to hang out with the children, since he was under eighteen and all. It wasn't something he enjoyed, by any means, but he was glad for Kenny. They had left the sermon room to enter the smaller, less furnished kids room. The smelly brats were running around and playing in their Sunday clothes as if they were on a playground. If they only knew the bullshit being fed into their ears, they wouldn't seem half enthused.

Pulling out a cigarette, he stared at the children in disgust. "Misery loves company, non?" he pondered, eyeing Kenny.

Shrugging, the poor blonde stayed quiet. Church was getting him thinking, and that was never good.

"Eh. So what ees it zat you wanted to speak of?" Christophe asked, blowing smoke out as he sat on the back of a chair. Hearing no response from his suddenly silent friend, he stomped on the seat of the plastic chair, his light dress shoes making hardly any sound compared to his combat boots his mother had made him leave at home. "Ey, Kenny. What ees it?" he asked.

Snapping out of his stupor, Kenny bit his lip. "Where are you going?" he asked.

"On a mission," Christophe replied, somewhat perplexed.

"No, Mole, I mean _where_," Kenny stressed.

Pausing a moment, he chewed on the end of the cigarette. "I cant tell you," he said firmly.

"Listen, dude, I'm covering for you for three fucking weeks. What the hell do you think I'm going to tell people? You're at my house sick with the bullshit flu? Tell me where you're going or I'll goddamned tell everyone what you've been doing these past three years," Kenny demanded.

Startled, Christophe dropped the cigarette, his mouth slightly agape, eyes betraying his confusion. Composing himself as best he could, he swiped the cigarette from the plastic seat, flicking the debris off and replacing it between his now-stoic lips. After clearing his throat, he ran a hand through his hair, ruffling the slicked mess back to its usual state. "Israel," he answered stiffly.

Eyes slowly narrowing, brows furrowing into a displeased frown, Kenny only let his jaw open slightly. He hadn't expected Mole to be leaving the country any time soon. He stayed in the United States no matter what - his work was done for the good of the American people. What was he doing in Israel? What was there, except a bunch of sand and giant fucking spiders? Kenny felt his cheeks growing hot and realized now was not the time to get emotional. If Mole wanted to kill himself in some far-away land, that was his business. Kenny crossed his arms and stared at the mercenary accusingly. Its not like he meant to, it just came across that way.

"What?" Christophe asked after moments of silence.

"Its out of country," Kenny replied simply.

"A lot of zings are."

"You'll call, then?"

Pausing, Mole laughed. "Yes, on my imaginary cell phone,"he said offhandedly.

"I'm fucking serious, asshole."

Mole held his hand out, watching Kenny closely. When the younger boy didn't take his hand, Mole stepped off the chair, grabbing Kenny's hand and holding it tightly. "I'll call, worrywort," he said, reassuring the flustered blonde. "I'll even give you money zis time."

Squeezing Mole's hand back, Kenny scoffed. "You better pay me for this."

"Of course. Anything for a friend." Waving Kenny off, Mole walked towards the pile of children on the opposite end of the room, Kenny straying behind. Mole stared at the kids, observing their interest for a moment. On the television, a tomato, cucumber, and various other fruit or vegetable substances were singing and dancing. Arching an eyebrow, he pointed to the television. "What is zis crap?" he asked.

It was Kenny's turn to arch an eyebrow. "You've never seen the Veggie Tales?" he asked.

"What ze hell are_ Veggie Tailes_?"

"You don't know what Veggie Tales are?" a kid asked, awed as he turned from his important video.

Mole hunkered down on his heels, glaring at the insolent child. "No," he said, blowing smoke in the kid's face. "I do not."

Coughing, the kid scooted away, turning back to the video playing, every so often shooting a wary glance at the crazy mercenary. Mole stood up, tapping ash on the floor. He glanced at Kenny, then to the video. "What ze fuck are zey?" he asked angrily.

Kenny shook his head. "They're a religious show for kids based on eating healthy with Jesus," he answered. "Really, Mole, I thought you'd be all over this. Its right up your alley."

Looking to the television, he narrowed his eyes. "So its religious propaganda?" he asked.

"Bingo."

Chewing on his cigarette, Mole turned to watch the green and red characters as they frolicked on the screen. His eyebrows grew increasingly knit, his expression slowly changing from intrigue to anger. If there was one thing on this planet that he hated more than guard dogs, it was religious propaganda. As the vegetables broke out in song, he pushed through the crowd of children and kicked the television over with the heel of his fancy black dress shoes. It crashed to the ground, cracking the screen and halting the disgusting march of _Bob and Larry_ the so-called vegetables. Amid the outcry for justice from the children, he turned around and blew smoke into the air. "What ees zis zey make you watch?" he asked. "Its worse zan Barny ze fucking dinosaur. Why are you sitting in front of it?"

"We _like_ the Veggie Tales," a girl pointed out, near tears.

"Well ze Veggie Faggots done like you," Mole retorted. "Zey are a marketing tool for religious recruiters, aimed towards children to corrupt zem into service for ze church." Seeing that a few of the children didn't quite grasp his concept, he chose a separate approach. Kenny simply stood back, shaking his head. It was considered normal, in Mole Land, to spout off about religion as if it were a dinner topic.

"Zhink of it zis way," he offered. "Zey are forcing you to come here, non? And zey bring you to otzher activities. Zey are ruining your lives. Zey are not letting you play video games, go outside, or do school work."

Several children nodded to each other, murmuring their agreement. They seemed to be getting the point.

"Christophe Moliere!"

Looking up, Mole groaned. The Sunday School teachers had chosen that exact time to step through the doors, and they didn't like what they saw. They never liked what they saw when it came to himself, though he could fathom why. Kicking the television for good measure, he grabbed Kenny's orange sleeve and pulled him away. "We were just leaving."

"Wait until your mother hears about this, young man!"

Mole raised his hand, flipping the old croon the bird as he left the room. Once outside, amid fresh air and blue skies, he collapsed in a park bench. The cigarette still firmly clenched in his teeth, he hissed smoke through them. "I leave tonight," he said offhandedly. "I cant say I will miss zis."

Kenny sat next to the mercenary. "No, cant say I will either."

"You didn't have to come."

"Yes, I did."

"No, you didn't."

"Did."

"Didn't," Mole said, punching Kenny in the arm. "And don't say I forced you."

Kenny scoffed. "As if. You're going away for three weeks, I need to be able to tell people where you're not, and to do that I have to know where you were. I had to find out somehow, dumbass."

"Zen I leave at midnight," Mole said. "Everytzhing ees in order."

"You'll _try_ to call?" Kenny pryed. "So if you, you know, die, I'll be able to let someone know."

Mole shrugged, looking up. "If I die, you will be ze first to know."


	5. Camp Obvious

**chapter ; **

**disclaimer ; **I _quite obviously _do not own South Park. Matt and Trey do.

**disclaimer two ;**__I do own what is written here, so please do not use it without giving me credit.

**author's note ; **A mondo-long chapter to make up for lack of updates. This chapter inspired by true events. Camping last year was a blast. Can't wait for summer. Enjoy.

**clarification ; **This story is _not_ Kenny/Christophe slash. There are certainly undertones of a relationship, but it is strictly platonic. Sorry to disappoint.

* * *

South Park never followed rules. Monday morning was evidence enough, as Kenny walked into his first hour class. Upon sitting down, he was instantly bombarded with eager questions and excited babble. Something about a surprise field trip. Apparently, someone had told the excited guys and gals that Kenny knew a lot about where they were going, for whatever reason that would be. He had no money - how would he get to a field-trip worthy area? As he waved questions away and scowled in irritation, he spotted Cartman giggling across the room.

Figures.

"No, I don't know anything about the field trip. Go away," he said, shooing the kids away. Freshmen. Always so irritating.

The teacher still wasn't in the class. It was unusual for her to be missing. Just as Kenny was pulling out his tattered notebook to sketch, he saw a green-shirt-wearing man walk into class. Surprised, he put the notebook back in his dirty black drawstring bag. They hadn't seen Mr. Garrison since sixth grade. Or, at least they hadn't bothered to seek him out.

"Hey, children. Your normal teacher is out, so I'm going to be subbing for you today."

"So what's the field trip?" a student asked curiously.

"We're going to the local YMCA camp and learning some survival techniques. Apparently Principal Victoria thinks you're too incompetent to survive in South Park," Mr. Garrison responded, rolling his eyes.

"Does this have anything to do with a kindergartner being eaten by a bear?" a student asked.

"No. I'm sure it doesn't."

"Oh."

"Is everyone ready to go? We don't have all day here."

Students stood up, shouldering bags as they muttered among themselves. Mr. Garrison filed them out of the classroom, and Kenny found himself falling into line next to Cartman, Kyle, and Stan. They walked outside in relative silence, waiting on the curb for the yellow bus to show up. Sometimes it took them a while.

"So where's your butt buddy?" Cartman asked, nudging Kenny.

"Who?"

"The British shit."

"Oh. He's sick."

"Of ass fucking," Cartman retorted.

Kenny rolled his eyes. "Whatever."

Kyle gave the poor kid a sympathetic look. Of all the people in South Park, Kenny and Kyle received the brunt of Cartman's abuse. "Come on, I want to get the back seat," he said, pushing Kenny in front of him onto the bus.

The trip was relatively short. The YMCA camp was located fifteen miles out of South Park and, according to Mr. Garrison, was newly built that year. They got off the bus, stretching out and wandering. Kenny stayed close to the bus - dying wasn't on his list of things he wanted to do today, and a new YMCA park seemed to be the perfect recipe for death.

"Alright, children. Lets get going and meet your guide. I hope they have a fucking chili cheese dog stand somewhere in here," Mr. Garrison said, herding the group of South Park students towards the long, low, log buildings.

Before reaching the front doors, a man wearing khaki shorts and a puke-green shirt walked out, a smile plastered on his face. "Welcome to the YMCA camp!" he announced. "I presume you're the South Park class?"

"No, douchebag, we're from the nursing home," Cartman said under his breath, rolling his eyes.

Stan elbowed him in the ribs.

"Oh, don't mind him," Mr. Garrison said to the startled camp guide. "He's just upset because he's fat."

"Ay! I'm not fat! I'm big-boned!"

"Keep using that excuse, Eric."

Nearly mortified, the camp guide stared at the class. Certainly not what he had expected from quiet little South Park. Gaining composure, he cleared his throat. "My name is Mark and I'll be your Trail Buddy today. We're going to do some basic survival techniques. Now, I need you to partner into groups of four. There are enough of you to do that, are there not?" he asked, peering intently at Mr. Garrison.

Shrugging, the substitute pointed to the class. "You heard him. Partner up. Go, go, go!"

Kenny milled to the side, gathering with Stan, Kyle, and Cartman. Two other groups had formed out of the small class. Butters and Tweak were among the second group, Wendy and Bebe were among the third. Kenny shrugged it off as nothing to be worried about. After all, he was partnered with his two best friends.

"Thanks for getting into groups," Mark said, clapping his hands together. "Follow me over here, and I'll show you what we're going to be doing." Walking to a clearing, he stopped at a pit in the ground. The class gathered, watching warily. They'd learned that strange things happened to South Park students. Taking two sticks from the pit, he held them up. "Using just these, you're going to start a fire in one of those pits," he instructed, pointing to the holes in the ground. "Once a fire has been started, you will need to trade with the outpost over there to make hotdogs over your fire. Go."

Mr. Garrison took the guide aside as the students took their places, whispering to him. Kenny stood several feet from the pit. Never be too careful. Cartman picked up the two sticks, staring at them for a moment.

"Kenny, start us a god damned fire," he said, tossing the sticks at Kenny, who dodged and let them fall to the ground.

"I can't make fire," Kenny replied snidely.

"Sure you can. You're poor."

"That doesn't even make sense, dude," Kyle said, frowning.

"He's poor. He cant afford electricity. He sets candles on fire and shit like Abe Lincoln did."

"No I don't!"

"Shut up, Kenny. Just because you're poor doesn't mean you have to hold out on us."

Ignoring the fat ass, Kyle picked up the sticks. "My dad taught me how to start a fire when I was little. I'll give it a go."

"No, Kyle, you're the _Jew_. You're supposed to haggle with the injins to get us a better deal," Cartman whined.

Turning his back to Cartman, Kyle set the larger of the two sticks down, rubbing the second against it quickly. Stan and Kenny gathered around, Kenny keeping a fair distance from the fire. Cartman pushed his way into the makeshift circle.

"Ay, assholes, who's gonna get the hotdogs?" he asked.

"Go get them yourself," Stan said, pushing Cartman aside.

Huffing, he left the circle. Kenny rolled his eyes and looked back at the fire. Nothing so far. He shot a glance at Butters, seeing that he was as lost as they were. Glancing at Bebe and Wendy, he groaned. "Wondergirls are at it again," he said, nudging Stan.

Stan looked over, getting that far-away dreamy look he got whenever Wendy came into view. It didn't matter if the girl was screaming or hutting him, Stan would be obsessed with her. Until he puked. Then he would be embarrassed. Exactly_ why _ he still puked after all these years was unknown.

Snapping his fingers, Kenny coughed to catch Stan's attention. "Hey, loverboy, over here. Concentrate on our own fire."

Kyle tossed the sticks down, throwing his hands up in defeat. "I can't make a fire," he said. "I just can't do it."

Kenny stepped closer, picked the sticks up, and squatted by the pit. He didn't like to prove Cartman right. The kid had an ego the size of Russia. He'd been proven right so many times with Token that Kenny had almost given up. Except on this, which he wanted to keep Cartman in the dark about. However, it was terribly hard to prove him wrong when Kenny had done a summer-long stint with Mole as a budding arsonist. They'd almost gotten caught several times, to which Kenny ended their spree prematurely, much to the displeasure of Mole, who thought it was the most entertaining thing since digging holes.

Kyle and Stan peered over his shoulder as he worked the fire, blowing on it a little to get it to spark. After what seemed like ages, he saw the faint whisp of a fire. "There. Where's Cartman? I want a fucking hotdog."

"Holy crap dude! We have to keep it going!" Stan exclaimed, grabbing a chunk of newspaper and hurridly placing it on top of the tiny fire.

Kyle smacked himself in the face.

Kenny just sat back and sighed.

"What did I do?" Stan asked, lifting the paper to see dark smoke curling upward.

"You killed the fire, dude. You add the paper _slowly,_" Kyle said. "Now we're going to fail the test."

Bebe and Wendy jumped up from their pit, squealing in girlish delight. Kenny looked over, rolling his eyes. "Well, looks like the chicks won," he said, noting the cooked hotdogs on a fancy paper plate. "Kinda wish we got some hotdogs."

Cartman came back with a package of uncooked hotdogs and four buns. "They gave us extra in case some idiot drops one," he said. "Did you start the fire, Kenny?"

Kenny looked at Stan and Kyle. They all shook their heads.

"It doesn't matter, fatass. Wendy made a fire and cooked a hotdog first," Kyle said.

Mark whistled through his fingers, effectively capturing the attention of the group. "Okay, everyone. Wendy's group has made the hotdogs first. Congratulations for showing your survival skills," he said, his large smile never leaving his face. "Now, lets all go to the fire pit and we can make s'mores."

Cartman lit up at the mention of food. "Fuckin' sweet," he said, eagerly following the camp leader. Once seated around the fire, they each were given several marshmallows and a roasting stick. With the sun setting slowly behind the Colorado mountains, the fire was warm and inviting.

"Living in the wild is a lot harder than Hollywood makes it sound," Mark said. "There are animals that can eat you, and plants that can kill you if you eat them. Water is usually not safe to drink, and sleeping is difficult. Of course, today we have tents and campgrounds to make us _feel_ like we're living outside."

Nudging Kenny, Cartman whispered, "Ay, gimme your marshmallows."

"No way, man!"

"Come on, you don't eat much because you're poor. I need more food than you because I'm a growing boy."

"You used that excuse enough in grade school, asshole."

"Gimme your food, Kenny!"

Tackling the marshmallow-hoarder, Cartman and Kenny rolled onto the ground, kicking and punching. Stan and Kyle stared as the class jumped up to shouts of _fight, fight, fight!_ The camp leader got to his feet, looking for Mr. Garrison, who was nowhere in sight.

"Boys!" Mark shouted. "Boys! Boys, stop this nonsense this instant!"

Suddenly, the ball of boys broke apart. Cartman slammed against the bench, an empty marshmallow bag in his hand. Kenny rolled backwards into the fire, holding two marshmallows in his hand.

"Oh my god, dude! You killed Kenny over some marshmallows!"

"You bastard!"

Startled, Mark rushed for the fire extinguisher. By the time he got back, the class was sitting around the fire, roasting marshmallows. Ignoring the strange attitude, he rushed in, extinguishing the fire quickly, finding nothing but ashes and a few bones.

"We have to call the police!" he said, twitching slightly.

"Why?" Cartman asked.

"Because that little boy just died in the fire!"

"Oh, Kenny? He dies all the time. Little bastard stole my marshmallows, too."

"Wait, this happens all the time?" Mark asked cautiously.

"Sure it does."

Laughing lightly, Mark fainted, falling to the ground.

Poking the man with the toe of his shoe, Cartman yelled over his shoulder, "Mr. Garrison! I think its time to go home now!"

Kyle shook his head. "This is so fucked up."


	6. How was Hell?

**chapter ; **How was Hell?

**disclaimer ; **I _quite obviously _do not own South Park. Matt and Trey do.

**disclaimer two ;**__I do own what is written here, so please do not use it without giving me credit.

**author's note ; **I finished this last night, so I figured I would go ahead and upload it. Also - Thank you, Mickey the Amazing, for your amazing review. It made my day a lot better, since I was at work when I read it. I hope everyone enjoys this next chapter.

* * *

Damien was pouting.

Kenny had no qualms with the strange son of the Fallen One, contrary to many people's beliefs. He rather enjoyed Damien's company. Aside from Mole, Damien was the only person in the universe (we say universe because Hell is neither part of Earth or the planet itself) that understood what Kenny went through almost every week. Mole hardly knew the torture, having only been dead a short time, and Damien knew nothing of death, but between them, they had an idea.

That's not to say Kenny didn't mind when Damien pouted.

Knocking on the simple wooden door to Damien's room, Kenny leaned in, putting his ear against the crack. "Come out," he said.

"No."

Sighing, he sat down, thudding his back against the door. "_Please_ come out."

"Why? You'll just _laugh_ at me."

"When have I _ever_ laughed at you?" Kenny asked.

Damien paused a moment, and Kenny could hear him sniffle through the door. "When I first came to South Park," he answered.

Pinching his nose, Kenny sighed. "That was ten years ago, and you set me on fire. _And _I apologized. Twice. Come out, alright?"

The door unlocked, and Kenny got to his feet. Damien poked his nose out, peering down it at Kenny. It was quite a feat - Damien was almost a foot shorter than the mortal at his door. "You must promise not to laugh," he said seriously.

"Cross my heart and hope to die," Kenny said.

Looking him over, Damien made a face. "That doesn't mean much coming from you."

"Just get out here. I don't know how to work the television."

Damien pried the door open, stepping out. Kenny almost laughed, but remembered that doing so would send the black-haired child into his room for another three hours. It was a damn good thing that Hell was boring anyway, or Kenny would have hit him for making him wait so long.

"So... uh... nice style, Damien. Your dad picking out clothes again?" Kenny asked, fighting back the laughter.

Looking down at the Hawaiian-flower-print pink shirt, the yellow shorts, and the pink flip flops, Damien scowled. His pale white skin showed like a beacon under the bright colors, his black hair stood out like a ginger kid in Africa. "He said we're going to California to take care of some business. He gave me this and told me to get dressed... Shut the hell up, Kenny."

"Sure thing. You want to turn the television on? I don't know how to."

Stalking to the large-screen television, Damien pointed at it, saying several words in whatever language he spoke. Flickering to life, the screen showed a scene from outside, in the planes of hell. Snapping his fingers, Damien turned to Kenny. "What do you want to watch?" he asked.

"Whatever works for me. I'm hoping to go back quick this time, I have to catch a call tonight," Kenny said, flopping down on the couch.

Damien clapped at the t.v., then sat down. On the screen, several people filed into a line and began acting out an episode of Bonanza. "I could talk to my father," he offered.

"Nah, don't want to be a bother. I mean, he sends me back all the time. It's got to be tedious."

"So who's calling?" Damien asked curiously.

Kenny raised an eyebrow. "Christophe," he said.

Damien scoffed, a bowl of popcorn appearing in his lap. "Good luck with that," he said. "He's got his hands full. He's not going to call any time soon."

Kenny sat straight on the couch, leaning towards the son of hell. "How do you know that?" he asked.

"I have sources."

"Secrets?"

"Pretty much."

"Oh. What else can you tell me?"

"I've already told you too much," Damien said, throwing a piece of popcorn at the death-prone teen.

Kenny plucked the white puff from the pocket of his parka. "These guys suck," he said, motioning to the television re-enactment of Bonanza.

"If it makes you feel better, I can have them killed."

"Again?"

"Yeah, we can do that."

"Sweet."

"Yup."

"You should think about getting HBO down here."

"Yeah."

Sitting in silence for a moment, Kenny started laughing. Damien looked puzzled, and stopped eating the popcorn. Kenny, meanwhile, was holding his side as he laughed. Bringing himself under control, he wiped tears from his eyes. Still giggling, he looked at Damien. "Dude, you look like the technicolor coat," he exploded, laughing again.

Throwing the popcorn to the floor, Damien pointed at him. "You said you wouldn't laugh!" he exclaimed. "You're so lucky you're my _friend, _infidel." Storming back to his room, he slammed the door and locked it deftly.

Knowing it was no use chasing after Damien, Kenny laughed to himself some more, stretching out on the couch. Rolling onto his side, he chuckled himself to sleep. He got his best sleep in hell. It was strange, in the kind of way that he shouldn't be so used to something so horrible. He would take advantage of it as long as he could.

...

Waking up, he found himself staring at the ceiling of his room. The phone was ringing off the hook, and his mother was screaming at his father. His sister was probably locked in her room, the headphones tucked tightly over her ears, hunched over her desk, scribbling doodles furiously. Kevin was probably out drinking with his buddies. Kenny, it seemed, was destined to come back to his dysfunctional family at its most dysfunctional moment.

Rolling out of bed, he reached for the phone. It was a blue payphone that Mole had dug out of the ground and brought to his house one night, claiming that Kenny needed his own personal phone in his room. It had been difficult to explain to his parents. Answering the phone, he stammered out his name in what would sound like a sleepy stupor. Really, he was re-energizing after his day in Hell.

"Kenny?"

"Mm. Mole?"

"Oui."

"How's it?"

"Bad. I don't have much time."

Kenny snapped out of his stupor quickly. Amazing how well a shock to the system worked. "What? Why?"

"Zhings are not working out like zey should," he said, pausing for a moment. "What have you been doing?"

"Change of subject," Kenny grumbled.

"Answer ze question, eet will make me feel better."

Sighing in frustration, Kenny pinched himself to stop from arguing on a preciously rare phone call. "I died yesterday. Cartman pushed me in a fire."

"Zat bastard."

"Everyone thinks so."

"What else?" Mole asked, the sound of smoke escaping his lips rustling through the phone.

"Damien looked like Big Gay Al puked him up," Kenny said, chuckling at the thought.

"Hell was nice?"

"Sure, if you like the heat and screaming."

"Zat's good."

"When are you coming back to South Park?" Kenny asked curiously.

A pause filled the line. Clearing his throat, Mole blew thick smoke into the receiver. Kenny could almost _smell _it. "Not soon. I'm sorry. I will pay you twice ze amount."

"Eh, don't worry about it. Keep yourself safe, get back here, and we can go out blowing up buildings next week or something."

"Zat sounds good," Mole said. Hesitating, he took a deep breath. "Hey, Kenny, I need to ask you - Oh, _Sheet, _fucking _beetches_. I have to go. Eet's not safe. I'll call soon."

The line went dead.

Kenny reluctantly dropped the phone on the hook.

He supposed he should thank Damien for sending him home on time, and apologize for being an ass and laughing. It was a dick move. Next time he went to Hell, he'd get right on it. Until then, he would avoid dying at all costs until the next call from Mole. He hated these trips. Kyle and Stan were his best friends, but Mole was his confidant. The person closer to him than a brother, and that said something.

Slamming doors signified that the kitchen was open, meaning he could swipe something to eat. Or drink, however he found himself by the time he got downstairs. Pushing his door open, he poked his head out and saw his sister had the same idea. Nodding to her, they both tip-toed down the stairs, keeping an eye out for any sign of their parents, the Horrible. Motioning that the coast was clear, Kenny popped open the fridge. Swiping a rare can of ultra-generic soda and an even rarer slice of American cleaner cheese, he pulled a piece of bread from the box and rolled it around the cheese.

"When did you get home?" his sister asked, eating a piece of cheese slowly.

"A few minutes ago," Kenny answered.

"I didn't see you come in..."

"Window."

"Oh."

His whole family acted like he never died. They preferred not to think about it, which was fine with him. Most people he knew pretended that he didn't exist, and the rest of them acted like he went on extended vacations. Then, there was Cartman. He didn't care, one way or another, as long as he got what he wanted.

A creak from the front room set them both on edge. Jumping, they instinctively hid behind the fridge. The door closed, and the lock clicked into place. Peering around the fridge, Kenny let out a sigh of relief. He stepped out and motioned to the fridge. "Mom and Dad fight night. Help yourself," he said.

Kevin shrugged. "Ate all I could at the party," he slurred. "Goin' to bed now."

Kenny gave him the thumbs up, only to reduce chances of him speaking loudly, and turned back to eating his cheese sandwich. Finishing it quickly, he waved to his sister and hurried up the stairs. Noting that his door was cracked open, he moved inside slowly. Kevin was passed out on his bed, half on and half off, one arm dangling over the side. Closing the door behind him, Kenny grabbed his raggy pillows and a thin blanket, patted his drunken brother on the head, and curled up at the head of his bed.

"Goodnight, idiot," he muttered, closing his eyes.


	7. Eight Years Ago

**chapter ; **Eight Years Ago

**disclaimer ; **I _quite obviously _do not own South Park. Matt and Trey do.

**disclaimer two ;**__I do own what is written here, so please do not use it without giving me credit.

**author's note ; **I apologize for the lack of updates recently, and the surge of new material. Even if you don't review, I know you're reading, and the show must always go on. I aim to please, after all. If you have any input on stories you would like me to write, or if you have a special pairing you'd like me to write a story about, go ahead and let me know. My creative juices are flowing out the wazoo and need somewhere to go.

* * *

Kenny stood in the shower, sighing lethargically under the ever-changing water. One moment, the shower would pulse soothing, warm water. The next moment, it would be attempting to scald his skin off to make Kenney soup in the drain. Something was wrong with the water heater, but instead of fixing it, his father spent money on alcohol. Apparently, showers were less important than booze, but Kenny wasn't about to become the stinky kid in class.

Running the thin bar of soap across his chest, he frowned at the small line of bubbles. As poor as they were, they barely afforded a bar of soap a month. This month's soap dwindled faster than the last, though it could be attributed to the fact that Kenny had been taking almost twice as many showers. Hanging out with Mole gave him the distinct feeling he came from a smoke factory every night. The stale smell floating around his head tended to give him a migraine, more often than not. He didn't particularly enjoy the pounding in his ears as he tried to sleep to the sounds of his parents either arguing or having sex.

He was _so_ disgusted that they still had sex. Any good kid would be.

A low-pitched squeal echoed in the bathroom, signaling the change of temperature from normal to insanely, boiling-lobster hot. Jumping out of the way as the water scalded his legs, Kenny cursed the shower, stepping out onto the dirty towel. Turning the shower off from the outside, he pulled his own ragged blue towel from the cabinet, wrapping it around his shoulders and drying his torso, he peered into the mirror, making faces to inspect his teeth. Surprisingly, they remained straight, clean, and white. Maybe it could be attributed to the fact that he didn't eat enough to rot his teeth. Maybe it was because he had good genetics, despite his failed upbringing. Sticking his tongue out at his reflection, he pulled away to rub the towel over his hair.

Six days passed since Mole's Monday night call. Though it wasn't unusual for the mercenary to neglect contact - in fact, he rarely ever called on his missions - this particular time period was quite different. Kenny found himself irritated at Mole for leaving him to answer the questions for three weeks. The lies piled up, and every day at school, he walked into Principal Victoria's office to tell her, "_Christophe wont be in today, he's home sick" _to which the woman would nod in understanding, offer her condolences, and order Kenny to take the mercenary's homework home. A neat stack had piled up on the milk crate next to Kenny's bed, and he had managed to get through several pages of it the night Mole called. Since then, however, he hadn't touched the paper.

Slipping into a pair of his black boxers, Kenny opened the door, groaning in disappointment as it cocked to the side, falling off the hinge. Another thing that needed fixing that wouldn't see the funds for several years - if ever. He supposed he could sell his PSP for the money, but he rather enjoyed the escape it provided. Giving it up was hardly an option. Stopping in the hallway, he pressed the tip of the towel into his ear, getting the water out. Morning rituals on Sunday were his favorite. He had the house to himself, as the rest of his family went to church. If he wanted, he could walk around stark naked. The last time he had done so, Mole showed up, surprising him as he made a bologna sandwich in his birthday suit. Suffice it to say, Kenny took caution when wandering the house naked from that point on.

Ringing penetrated the silence. Pausing to listen, Kenny walked into his room. The payphone rang again, and he picked it up. He didn't know what he expected, but something told him it would be a highly anticipated call.

"Hello?"

"_Sheet_, where the _fuck_ have you been, _beetch?!_" Mole growled into the phone.

"Dude, I don't know what you're talking about," Kenny said, irritated. "This is the first time the phone rang."

Mole was silent a moment, finally scoffing after the thought sank in. "Whatever."

"So when are you coming back?"

"I said tzhree weeks," Mole answered. "I need to ask you sometzhing."

"Sure."

"Do you know where Gregory lives?"

Pausing, Kenny sighed deeply. He _hated_ Gregory, most people did. Except Mole, who, for some reason, found the brooding teenager tolerable enough to hang out with him every few weeks. Perhaps even more, though Kenny would keep his assumptions to himself. "No," he said finally.

"_Hum_. Zat wont do."

"What the hell are you talking about?"

"Notzhing," Mole amended quickly, the sound of adjusting the receiver crackling through the line.

Kenny scoffed. Mole occasionally dodged questions, it was nothing new. Mole's voice showed no concern, far more relaxed than the last time he had called. Kenny tilted his head, holding the phone against his shoulder as he wrapped the towel around his waist. He ought to walk around with clothing on more often, even if his family was out at church. Sometimes, his brother came home early to drink a beer before going to his friend's house. "Ugh, so how's Alabama or Canada or wherever the fuck you are?" he asked, walking as far as the cord would allow him into his closet.

"Israel," Mole corrected, blowing smoke into the receiver.

"You're gonna give me phone cancer, the way you do that," Kenny muttered.

"Hmph. You'll come right back."

Kenny rolled his eyes. "Thanks for the concern."

"Any time."

Kenny picked a white shirt from his closet, a hand-me-down from his brother. Walking out the closet, he swiped the jeans from the floor and tossed the combination on to his bed. "How's your down time?" he asked, tossing the towel onto the floor and getting dressed as he balanced the phone against his ear.

"Eets not down-time," he said. "I'm watching ze beetches right now."

"Really?" Kenny asked, interest piqued. "What do they look like? A bunch of homeless assholes?"

Mole paused, apparently studying the men. Finally, he scoffed, a laugh hiding behind his voice. "Zey look like _very_ bad actors in a mockery of _Ze Sopranos_," he answerd.

"So they look like James Gandolfini?"

"If James Gandolfini was anorexic."

Kenny laughed, and Mole even let out a small grunt of what he considered mirth. "Your homework is on my desk," Kenny mentioned, looking at the stack of paper. "There's a bunch of it, dude. You better get back, I can only do so much of it without the teachers suspecting something."

"I'll give you five dollars a paper to copy off you," Mole tempted.

"Five dollars _per sheet_ or five per actual assignment?"

Blowing smoke, Mole snorted. "Your choice."

"Sweet."

"Enjoy it while it lasts," Mole said.

"How's the food?" Kenny asked.

"Not zat bad, actually," Mole said. Paper crinkled in the background. "Fruits and vegetable everywhere. And some very weird egg-roll tzhings."

"It's the local cuisine, fuckwad, show some respect," Kenny said, chuckling to himself.

"Sure," Mole said with a sigh. "Listen, Kenny, zey're on ze move again. I'll call back when I get ze time. And ze payphone is out of time. I've put a dozen coins in zis tzhing now."

"Well, a proper goodbye? Must be my lucky day."

"Keep eet up," Mole threatened. "Goodbye, Kenny. Do my homework, _Beetch_."

"Sure, asshole," Kenny said, rolling his eyes as he set the phone on the receiver. Reassured after the pleasant, calm phone call, he slipped his white shirt on just as the door downstairs creaked open, probably giving way to his older brother. Sighing heavily, Kenny stepped into the hallway, looking down the narrow hall. "Kevin?" he called.

"Uh," the response came from the kitchen, the sound of the fridge opening.

Kenny walked down the hallway, picking his way around the beercans and empty boxes. It wasn't cleaning day... yet. "Are mom and dad -"

"Still at church? Yup." Kevin cracked open a beer, dressed in his Sunday best. Straight black slacks and a pressed white shirt, probably the most expensive thing in the McCormick house. They only wore the clothing on Sunday, and they never washed them - that would cost too much. "Where were you?"

Kenny shrugged. "Shower," he said.

Kevin raised an eyebrow. "For three hours?"

"I was dirty."

Kevin laughed, gulping down beer. He didn't know how much time he had, and if his dad caught him drinking - _again_ - he would get a tanned hide. "Want some?" he asked, offering the last few gulps of alcoholic liquid.

Kenny shook his head. "Actually, I'm good," he said. "I'm going to head over to Stan's place. We were supposed to catch a movie or something today."

"Better leave before mom finds out you skipped to waste all our hot water."

"Shut up."

"Make me."

"I would. But I'm busy."

"Wuss."

Kenny flipped him the bird. "Just tell them I haven't been home yet," he said, grabbing his parka and leaving out the back door. Stan's house wasn't far away, just a simple skip across the tracks. But then, everything was a simple skip across the tracks when you were the only one living on the wrong side. Kenny didn't mind - he had enough friends who cared somewhat, and he got real food more often than his sister. Kevin was always at parties, but his diet probably consisted more of pretzels and beer than anything else.

Taking the back way, he cut through a yard, tripping over a tangled knot of grassy snow. Falling face-first into the cold, powdery substance, he pushed himself up, sputtering droplets of quickly-forming water. "Shit," he grumbled, shaking himself off. "Fuckin' snow." Reaching down to his worn out sneakers, he thought about something for the first time in a _long_ time. Perhaps it was the coldness on his face, or the way he rubbed snow off his jeans like he had rubbed stones from his knees.

So many years ago, he had been a nobody in hell, one in a thousand, a casualty of a forthcoming war. So many years ago, he had changed the world.

But before all that, he had been a nobody.

...

_Eight years ago..._

Standing alone in hell, he looked around. Sometime between the tortured screams and the pointless yelling, Satan had disappeared with his little ruler, Saddam, and they'd left Kenny, standing, in the middle of a red wasteland. Something told him the pair enjoyed torturing him. Maybe they were upset he kept getting away. Maybe he _wouldn't_ get away this time. Every other time he'd gone to hell, he had been anonymous, ambiguous and ghostly. None had paid attention to him. This time, however, Satan had taken a particular interest in him.

Maybe it had something to do with that Damien kid that came to earth. No one ever told Kenny what happened with that kid.

Pulling at the chain tied to his ankle, he sighed in frustration. It wouldn't have been so bad, if Satan had remembered to take the stupid shackle off before running away. Sitting down, he crossed his arms. If he had to sit here all day, he would. Hell could be worse, and he'd rather sit in boredom than torture. Tracing figure eights in the red dirt (probably blood, the more he thought about it), he tried to think about something interesting. Anything. The screaming and the yelling broke his concentration, and then a voice shattered his eardrums.

"Puny mortal, bow before me!"

Wincing, Kenny turned to the dark-haired boy behind him. "Damien," he said simply.

Pausing, the boy flinched back, as if remembering something past. Then, eyes narrowing, he pointed. "You made me suffer on earth!" he exclaimed. "I'll make you suffer twice as much here in _Hell!_" Stepping forward, Damien held his hand towards the mortal, wrapping Kenny in a thick steel chain. "How does it _feel_ to be constricted? How does it _feel_ to know you'll never escape death?"

Kenny winced. Damien had no idea how close to the heart he was playing it, and Kenny wasn't about to let on. "Feels... about as good... as your mom's _snatch_," he uttered.

"You dare speak about my mother that way, infidel?" Damien screeched.

"Who's ze infeedel?"

Turning from his captive, Damien stared at the newcomer. Shaggy, the color of earth, and smoking a cigarette, the kid was far more intimidating than the orange-parka-wearing subject behind him. "Wait your turn!" he ordered, trying not to sound _worried_. The true son of Satan wouldn't be worried over a mortal on the planes of Hell. It wasn't _son-like_.

"My turn for what?" the boy asked, smoke billowing from his mouth.

"For... for torture!"

"Uh-huh." The kid waved his hand at Damien, dismissing him. "Leave now. Ze orange tzhing ees mine."

Damien pointed his hand towards the newcomer, but nothing happened. No fire, no chains. The boy simply stared at him vacantly, the smoke puffing steadily.

The boy walked closer, standing face to face with the son of Satan. "What ees wrong?" he asked. "Scram."

Damien tried yelling something threatening, but instead vanished in a plume of smoke.

The boy walked to Kenny, kicking at the chains to loosen them from the orange kid's body. "You're a pussy," he said. "You have to stand up for yourself."

Kenny wiggled out of the chains, staring at the newcomer in awe. "Who _are_ you?" he asked, his voice muffled deeply by the parka.

Without skipping a beat, the newcomer blew a veil of smoke between them. "I am _Ze Mole_. I believe we have a common acquaintance."

Amazed that someone other than Kyle understood him, Kenny glared skeptically at this _Mole_ character. "Who the hell is that?"

"His name ees Gregory."

"That stuck up asshole?"

Mole stared peculiarly, tilting his head to the side, before cracking a smile. "Most would say zat."

Kenny brushed himself off, picking rocks from his knees. "Why the hell did you help me, anyway?"

"Zer isn't much else to do, is zer?" Mole asked lazily.

Kenny frowned. He hadn't much thought about it. Nodding in agreement, he left it at that.

...

"Dude, _Kenny!_"

Snapping out of his hazy remembrance of the past, Kenny found himself staring at Stan. Smiling sheepishly, the teen scratched the back of his head. "Oh, uh... yeah?" he asked.

"You've been daydreaming in my back yard for ten minutes. What the hell, man?"

Kenny shrugged. "Just thinking."

"Obviously. Do you wanna come in or something? Its freezing out here."

Kenny nodded, following Stan inside. He said hello to Mr. and Mrs. Marsh, nodding to Shelly and restraining another comment about her headgear. They went up to Stan's room and, after closing the door, he collapsed on the rather large, rather new comfy bed. Kenny grabbed a pillow, wrapping his arms around it and setting his chin on the top. He watched as Stan moved around his room, picking up little things here and there. His room was never as clean as Kyle's, but it held close - _read: unbeatable_ - second in their friend square.

Stan looked at Kenny, hugging the pillow, then shook his head. "Dude, don't do that, you look like a girl," he said, tossing a bag of doritos at him.

"I cant help it. Your bedding is always so soft."

"I'll give you a pillow or something, just leave mine alone."

"Pshaw, yeah right," Kenny smiled, pulling a second pillow into his vice grip. "So is Kyle coming or what?"

Stan frowned. "No... He said his mom made him and Ike do some kind of Jewish celebration thing."

Kenny fell back on the bed, holding the pillows on top of him. "Well, next time I guess."

Stan sat on the bed, bouncing slightly. "Why do you always come over on Sunday?"

Kenny shrugged. "Parents fight more on Sunday. And everyone else is gone from the house, so why not me?"

"I thought you liked being home alone?"

"Sometimes."

"Just not on Sundays."

Kenny grinned. "Yup."

Stan rolled his eyes. "Well, we're having pork chops for dinner. It should be ready in an hour. You want to play some Guitar Hero?"

Kenny sat up, pushing the pillows off onto the floor. "Seriously? Hells yeah," he said, grinning. While Stan got the controllers, Kenny opened the bag of doritos, stuffing several in his mouth at once. Sitting back against the wall, he took the controller from Stan and set it in his lap. "What song are we doing first?" he asked through a mouth full of chips.

"You choose," Stan said with a shrug.

Kenny agreed to this sentiment. He rarely played Guitar Hero, and his friends usually let him chose the song anyway. He was quite surprised that Stan hung out with him at all, since Stan was best friends with Kyle, but there were times when the two could only stand so much of each other. Stan's company was a welcome change to Mole, who swore and shouted and ranted about God and politics whenever he had the chance. Stan played video games and sometimes ranted about Cartman. The rest of the time, he was a supportive friend, fun to hang out with and always willing to help a buddy out.

Almost an hour into playing, Stan's mother called up the stairs for dinner. Stan paused the game in the middle of _War Pigs_, setting the controller against the bed. "Dude, about time," he said, pushing his door open. "Come on, Kenny. _Pork chops._"

Kenny set the controller down. His stomach growled and gurgled and bubbled from not eating the entire day. He was used to it, and having such a tantalizing meal on the horizon was only making it worse. He started to follow Stan, then stopped.

"Hey, what's wrong?" Stan asked, concerned.

"Uh..." Kenny paused, his face concentrated. It took him a moment to articulate it, but he sighed heavily and crossed the floor to the door. "Thanks for today," he said, a small smile playing across his lips.

"No problem, dude."


	8. All Mercenaries go to Hell

**chapter ; **All Mercenaries go to Hell

**disclaimer 1 ; **Don't own South Park.

**disclaimer 2 ; **Do own this story.

**author's note ; **I do apologize for this chapter. It's the very last, and I hope it lives up to some sort of expectations. I have never technically finished a story here on Fanfiction, and it gives me a certain level of confidence that I've done this well so far. I'm a little disappointed in the turnout on this one, but the story I started with stays true to the end. Please, if you've not reviewed quite yet, I would greatly appreciate a review on this chapter.

Please, enjoy the final chapter of _All Mercenaries go to Hell._

**author's note 2 ; **There will be an alternate ending posted quite soon.

**tons of thanks ; **NotebookChen and xxSay, your heartfelt reviews helped me continue this story before I had even really started. Truthless Faith, thanks for coming back to read my new chapters and leaving fluffy comments for me to read. Mickey-the-Amazing, you're awesome, and your review made my day so much better. I'm happy you're reading this story. Bengal Bay Biscuit, your name reminds me of Sea Biscuit, but that's beside the point. I am happy I've caught your attention, its what I'm always trying to accomplish. To my anonymous reviewers - Thanks for your support. I love all forms of reviews. It means a lot to know you take the time to let me know my work is being appreciated. To everyone who has not reviewed.... what are you waiting for? *hint hint wink wink*

* * *

"Kenny?"

Stirring under his thin sheet, the teenager poked his head out, hair ruffled, half asleep. He peered at his dad, almost ignoring the figure and choosing to think there were no people asking for him that early morning. Grumbling, he pulled himself out of the bed, sitting on the plywood floor, scratching his shirtless torso. "Mnhh," he grunted.

His father ignored his undressed state, instead looking back down the hall. "Kenny, yer mom's goin' into labor again." he said. "We wanted to know if ... you were gonna come with."

Kenny yawned loudly, stretching his jaw out before clambering to his feet. "Ughn. Sure," he said sleepily. "Lemme get ready."

"Well, hurry up," Stuart said, frowning before leaving the room.

Kenny sighed heavily. Pulling his parka on, he picked up his pants and shoes. Shouts from the kitchen reminded him to get ready fast, or be left behind. He didn't particularly want to be there for the birth of his next sibling, but there was little else to do. Except school. School could _always _wait. Exactly how many days he had already missed, he wasn't sure. Stan and Kyle had been piling up his homework over the days spent in hell for the last four years. Apparently, being dead wasn't a good enough reason to miss homework in High School.

"Kenny! We're gonna leave you here!"

"_Shit,"_ he grumbled under his breath, hopping down the hall as he pulled his left shoe on. Clutching the right shoe in his hand, he rushed to the door, pushing it open as Kevin slammed it back. "I'm here, I'm here," he cried out, shaking his hand from the impact. "_Christ."_

"Kenny! Don't use that kind of language!" his mother shrieked from the backseat of the 1980's-era ford station wagon. Being poor had a way of offsetting the cars you drove, and the last car - a Chevy truck - had lasted more than ten years before spontaneously combusting while Kenny attempted to drive it to school one day. The wagon had been in a yard in downtown Denver, selling for a whopping fifty dollars, because there was no back passenger door, the back window was blown out, and there was a suspicious rusty red stain in the trunk space. The McCormick family _really_ didn't care - they needed something to drive around in anyway.

Climbing into the car silently, Kenny sat between Kevin and Karen, elbowing her out of the way. She protested by punching him in the arm. Kevin sat next to the open passenger door, holding the makeshift wooden fence in place with a metal wire. As Stuart started the car, he slammed it into reverse and hit the gas forcefully, sending the whole family vaulting forward. Slamming on the brakes, he shifted into gear and stepped on the gas, sending the family back into their seats. This manner of driving continued until the emergency room parkinglot, where Stuart pulled Carol out of the car, tossed her into a wheelchair and rushed off like a madman.

Sitting in the parentless car, Kenny looked at Kevin. "So... are you going to park the car?" he asked.

Kevin sighed, crawling over the seats and pushing dirty hair out of his eyes as he sat in the drivers seat. "I guess," he said, putting the car into gear and driving slowly to the first parking space available. The three McCormick children crawled out of the car, walking to the emergency room quietly. Each of them knew what a new sibling meant, and none of them were prepared for that sacrifice. This particular Monday marked a dark day in McCormick children history, just as Karen's birth had marked the end of civilized dinners.

"Wonder what it is," Karen said offhandedly.

"A mouth," Kevin answered, pushing the door open for his younger siblings.

"And an anus," Kenny added.

"Ugh, does that mean I have to _babysit_?" Karen asked in shock.

Kenny and Kevin mulled it over for a second. "Since you volunteered," Kevin said with a laugh.

Taking their seats near the ER doors, the siblings waited in silence. Each mulled over the possibilities of the coming child, and for each, the consequences were different. Kenny worried about sharing his room - either with the baby or with Kevin. Heaven forbid he have to share it with Karen. _Underwear_ in his room that weren't his, or a girl's. It was unthinkable. For all those nights Mole decided to roll ninja-style into his window, Kenny believed it just wouldn't work out with either sibling. He worried about Mole's stability with children around.

Sighing, Kenny pulled his feet up onto the plastic chair, flipping his orange hood up, wrapping his arms around his legs and setting his chin on his knees. Soft music played over the speakers, as if the hospital staff were trying to calm the nerves of people waiting to be seen. A man cradled his bloody hand close to his chest. A woman fretted restlessly as she looked at an empty pill bottle. Kenny vaguely wondered who half the people were. He'd never seen a lot of them, and it made him wonder if they hung out at Hells Pass Hospital their whole lives. Like in _Beetlejuice_, where they spend an eternity waiting to be seen. The thought brought a small smile to his face. He hadn't actually heard of _Beetlejuice _until Mole showed it to him in the seventh grade. Apparently, just ahead of Disney's 1951 _Alice in Wonderland, Beetlejuice _topped Mole's list of amazing movies the United States puked up.

A woman walked out of the ER doors, pointed to the man with the bloody stub, and motioned him inside. The man got to his feet and followed her silently. Kenny buried his face in his knees and closed his eyes. A little nap couldn't hurt him, and he was sure his mom was going to be in labor for a while.

Kevin patted him on the back roughly. "I'll wake you up," he said.

"Mmph," Kenny responded, yawning into his legs.

...

It felt like an earthquake. Throwing his hands out to stabilize himself, Kenny smashed Kevin in the face, bringing a loud yelp from the older sibling's throat. Losing his balance, Kenny slipped off the plastic chair, onto the floor. "Oh, shit!" he cried, surprised. "Kevin, you okay?"

Holding his nose, Kevin gave him a crooked smile. "Sure," he said. "Mom had the baby."

Sitting up, he rubbed the back of his head. "I thought you were going to wake me up?"

"They didn't know we were here, so they didn't tell us until everyone else went into the ER," Kevin said with a shrug.

Kenny pulled himself to his feet, looking for Karen. After a moment, he realized she must have hurried into the hospital room. Sighing, Kenny fell into line behind Kevin, following him to the room. Walking through the door, Kenny was immediately assailed by the stench of medical equipment. For a moment, he flashed back to the time he _really_ died. Sitting in that hospital bed, surrounded by tubes, electronics beeping, people fawning over him as if it were his first time dying. As if being in a hospital automatically made things more serious.

A baby's wail broke through his concentration. Peering around Kevin, Kenny caught his first glimpse of the food-bag. He sighed and took a seat next to the bed. His mother cradled a baby in her arms, cooing at it quietly. Staring at the bundle of flesh, Kenny realized his life had changed for the worst. "Great," he grumbled. "So what's its name?"

Looking up, Carol frowned at Kenny. "We were thinking about naming _him_ Christophe."

Arching an eyebrow, Kenny scoffed. "Mom, that's my friend's name."

"We think it's a very nice name."

"But... mom... that's my friend's name. It's creepy," Kenny protested. "Cant you name him something normal, like John or Jason or -"

"Kenny! Don't back talk me!" Carol snapped.

Clenching his jaw, Kenny sat back in the chair. Kevin gave him a sympathetic look, but Karen was busy cooing to her new baby brother. Apparently, something in her genetics told her to fawn over babies, no matter how life-shattering that baby would be.

Stuart cleared his throat, announcing his presence for the first time since Kenny had seen him rushing off to the emergency room. "The baby's gonna be in our room for the first few months..." he said. "After that, we thought he could share your room, Kenny."

"Aw, damnit," Kenny growled. "Cant he be in Karen's room?"

Stuart stopped Carol from talking, instead pausing to choose his words. "Kenny, if you don't want to be part of your baby brother's life, maybe you should share Kevin's room and the baby can have your room."

Thinking quick, Kenny motioned to the baby. "I'm not against it," he said, to a dirty look from his mother. "Just... dude... the window in my room is broken and it lets in a wicked draft. It could catch a cold."

The renewed parents contemplaited this for a moment, then Carol sighed. "I suppose he's right," she said. "We can't let Christophe get sick."

Kenny put his face in his palm. "Why that name?" he asked quietly. Mole would certainly get a kick out of it, maybe even teach the kid a thing or two about digging and fighting for hire. Not like Mole had any morals to speak of. The next time he called, Kenny would have to tell him about the newest McCormick. _Christophe McCormick._ At least it didn't sound completely ridiculous, and he wouldn't be in school with the real Christophe. Imagine the mistakes when people assumed Christophe Moliere changed his name to his _rumored_ gay lover's last name.

Heads would roll.

Stuart kissed Carol on the forehead. "I'll be back after I drop the kids off," he said, gathering his keys and ushering the siblings out the door. "School's only half over."

...

Stan slammed his lunch tray down, the food jumping from the designated compartments. Kyle set his tray down on the opposite side, taking his seat far more gingerly than his BFF-4-EVR. Poking at his piece of bread, Kenny eyed the trays eagerly. Stan rarely ate all of his food, since he worked out before and after lunch. It made him slow to eat all the grease on his tray. Kyle devoured anything that wasn't kosher, and gave his kosher lunch to Stan. Somehow, Stan loved Kyle's Jewish cuisine.

Grabbing the milk carton, Stan crushed it too tightly, spilling milk onto the tray. Changing his focus, he jabbed his fork into the mystery meat, scraping the fork against the tray.

"Something wrong, Hulk?" Kenny asked.

"Kinda," Kyle answered, a frown crossing his pale face. Leaning closer to Kenny, he whispered, "They got into a fight."

Kenny's lips made an _o_ in understanding.

Stan flicked the fork, sending the mysterious glob of brown _meat_ flying across the table at Kenny. Pausing to see if the angry football player was going to retrieve it, Kenny finally picked it up off the table and put it in his mouth. Food was food, even if it was mystery meat. "Thanks, Stan," he said cheerily,

Brooding, Stan rolled his eyes. "Whatever, dude."

"Hey, Kenny, where's Mole?" Kyle asked curiously. "I haven't seen him in a few... like two weeks, dude."

"He has syphilis," Kenny said, snorting into the slice of bread he shoved into his mouth in an attempt not to laugh.

Kyle frowned. "He does not have syphilis!" he scoffed.

"He's got the flu, or something. He's sick."

"Oh, well, Mackey's been asking us about him. We said we didn't know."

Kenny pointed to the rest of the food on Stan's plate. "Hungry?" he asked.

"Go ahead," he answered.

"That bitch really got to you."

"She's not a bitch, Kenny, she's my girlfriend."

"Pain in the ass is what she is."

Stan glared, shoving the tray towards him. "Watch your mouth," he said angrily. "It was a fight. That's all. She'll forget all about it in a few hours."

"Dude, I don't think she'll forget about you staring at Bebe Stevens' ass."

Kenny whistled, mixing the vegetables on the tray with the mystery meat's gravy. "You're screwed, dude," he said. "Women _hate_ when you do that."

"How do you know, Kenny? You spend more time with Frenchie than girls," an irritating, grating voice piped up. A tray landed next to Stan's, and Cartman's fat ass squeezed into the seat. "My feet are killing me."

Kyle rolled his eyes. "Its all the weight they have to carry around, fatass."

"Fuck you," Cartman snapped. Their rivalry had certainly toned down in the years leading up to their senior year. Cartman started things, Kyle snipped back, and Cartman ended it with a simple statement. Neither had the same diehard hate they had before high school, which was a good thing for everyone involved. It made hanging out with the entire group far easier. Mixing his food in the disgusting way he tended to do, Cartman looked up at Stan. "Looks like someone ran over your dog."

"They got in a fight," Stan and Kenny said at the same time.

Cartman changed his attention to Kenny, frowning. "Where were you, poor boy?"

"When?" Kenny asked, shoveling a fork-full of gravy-covered vegetables into his mouth.

"This morning? Duh?"

Kenny paused, swallowed the food, and sighed. "Oh." Having intrigued Stan and Kyle, who leaned forward ever so slightly to hear the rest of the answer, Kenny had no choice but to go on. "My mom had a baby this morning."

A pause, and Cartman laughed loudly, snorting. "Is there enough room in your shack for another person, or are you going to eat it?" he asked.

"Shut up, Cartman. This is serious," Kyle growled. He looked at Kenny with concern. "Are your parents going to afford food?"

Kenny shrugged. "Dunno."

Kyle's brows furrowed as he picked absently at his tray. "You can eat at my house. The food is kinda bland, but its something."

"Thanks, dude. I'll remember it," Kenny said. Growing uncomfortable with all the attention on himself, he pushed himself from the table, getting to his feet. "I'll catch you guys in Lit later," he announced. "I need a smoke."

"Gonna smoke with your faggot Frenchie?" Cartman asked.

Kenny rolled his eyes, flipping Cartman off. He left the table to hear Stan and Kyle whispering between themselves, either of Wendy or Kenny's situation. Either way, he didn't particularly care. He had to leave the cafeteria. He hated attention on his poorness, and hated it more when people thought he needed to be coddled like an infant. He was old enough to fend for himself. Plenty of times, he'd thought about whoreing himself out, and every time, he'd nearly throw up in disgust. Sex was great - being paid for it by creepy old men was not. Maybe he'd start a _Kissing Business_, like Butters. The kid was so naive, he had no idea what he had done.

"Oh, h-hey Kenny." Speaking of Butters.

"Sup, Butters?" Kenny asked.

"N-nothing," Butters said, holding his books closer to his chest. "Where's Christophe?"

Arching an eyebrow, Kenny was about to answer when he saw a familiar figure walking into the front doors of South Park High. Mrs. Moliere seemed lost, as if she'd never bothered to come into the school in her life. Perhaps Christophe didn't even _go _to the school on the books, and it was just something he did to pass the time. Kenny wouldn't put it past him.

"Kenny?"

"Shit. Hold on, Butters," he answered, walking towards Mrs. Moliere in an effort to deter the woman from finding out about Christophe's skipping. He barely caught her before she went into the office. Spotting him, she smiled warmly.

"Oh, 'allo, Kenny. 'Ow are you today?" she asked sweetly, her words practically dripping in religion.

"Great," Kenny answered, trying to place himself between the door and the woman.

"Where eez Christophe?" she asked, looking for her son.

"Oh... uh-" Kenny fumbled over his words, suddenly realizing he hadn't anticipated anything like this. He hadn't thought the woman would really ask where Christophe was, nor did he expect her to come to school. It hadn't been a problem before. "Uh..."

"Oh, well, m-mam, he's in Mr. Mackey's office," Butters piped up.

"Eez 'e een trouble?" she asked, alarmed.

"Not really, uh, he's-"

"Getting t-tutored in math," Butters finished for the wordless Kenny.

"Really?" she asked. Mulling it over for a moment, she smiled. "Zat eez good. 'E called me last night, but ze phone... eet cut out. I zot maybe 'e wants to come 'home?"

Her voice held a hope in it that Kenny hadn't heard before, and it nearly killed him to tell her the answer. "He said he's going to stay a few more nights. We're partners in lab," he said.

Mrs. Moliere sighed heavily, wringing her hands. "Let 'im know 'e can come 'ome anytime. 'E wont even 'ave to go to church on Sunday." Pausing a moment to hear an answer, she grew distracted. Seeming to forget her original intent, she smiled wearily at the boys, turned, and left.

Kenny rounded on Butters. "What was that?" he asked, surprised. "You _never_ lie!"

"W-well it sounded awful important," Butters said, fidgeting. "A-and you help m-me out sometimes."

Kenny patted the awkward boy on the back. "Thanks, man," he said.

...

Five days passed. Kenny heard nothing from the absent mercenary, and was forced to lie to his mother yet again when she phoned the McCormick residence. Mackey and the principal were questioning the absence, though they continued to send Kenny home with homework. As the pile grew larger, he did fewer papers, perhaps in an attempt to let Mole save some of his hard-earned cash. Maybe he was sick of copying answers from his own papers. Regardless the reason, he was certainly not going to explain to Christophe why he had to do homework after a particularly difficult mission.

Knowing there would be no call on a Saturday night, Kenny had decided to take a walk in the cool, crisp air. Despite the chill, it was far better than dealing with a crying poop-machine. The baby had done nothing but cry since Carol brought it home. The wailing pierced through the thin walls, keeping the entire household awake. Kenny hadn't seen a mouse in two days, which was oddly startling, and he assumed they had moved out because of _Christophe_'s screaming. Against his wishes, his parents had named the baby after Mole. Somehow, Kenny felt better telling people Christophe was staying with him, when there was indeed a Christophe living under the McCormick roof - as patched and dirty as it was.

Stopping near an old bridge, he realized he had no idea where he was. Perhaps he had walked further than he had before, though he doubted it. He must have gotten lost and taken a turn near Stark's Pond. It would make the most sense. Despite knowing South Park very well, the crawling, strange feeling that overtook him would not be easily shaken. Turning from the bridge, he decided to pick his way back home. Setting off in the general direction, he was startled to hear a voice wafting through the trees.

Pausing to listen, he could hardly make out the words. The tone of the words sent a chill down his spine, bringing him closer to the two-sided conversation. Once he had brought himself to the bushes at the side of the road, he could hear the words clear.

"But what if someone finds out?"

"Mmm-they wont," the mechanical response growled.

"I'm just sayin' we should watch out, that's all."

"Mmm-you're a pussy."

"Damnit, Ned! Hunting's not allowed right now."

"Mnmmm-then why do we have rifles?"

Relieved to hear familiar voices, Kenny breathed a sigh of relief. Deciding to leave the two trigger-happy hunters to their own devices, Kenny was glad he wore an orange parka all the time. As he turned to leave, a twig crunched beneath his worn shoe. Freezing, he heard Ned and Jimbo hiss breath through their teeth. In an attempt to remedy the situation, Kenny turned back, raising his hand in greeting.

This was apparently met as a threat, as Jimbo shouted, _"Its comin' right for us!" _and Ned let off a shot with the rifle.

What a way to die.

...

"You're back soon," Damien said, hunkered down next to the waking-up McCormick.

Putting a hand to his head, Kenny groaned. The pain of a bullet hitting you square in the chest was something he wouldn't get over. The pain lasted only a second, but it was more than enough for Kenny to experience death every several days. He wished the pain could go away. Somehow, he didn't think Satan controlled _that_ aspect.

"How was Earth, Immortal?" Damien asked, moving away as Kenny sat up.

Screwing his face into a scowl, Kenny replied, "Earthy."

"Haha," Damien said dryly.

Kenny looked around, realizing they were not inside Satan's personal pad. "Why are we out here?" he asked. He usually showed up in hell somewhere around the home of the Fallen One. To not show up there was quite strange.

"Oh, Dad's got some company."

"Sounds... scary," Kenny said after a moment's pause.

Damien shrugged, helping Kenny to his feet. "It could always be worse."

Brushing himself off, Kenny had to concede. It could always be worse. Damien's dad could be the father of a newly-born blob of flesh. Scratching through his hair, he bit his lip. "So, do you have anything planned?"

"I _do_ wish you'd stop dropping in unannounced. You'd think the orange parka would be a dead giveaway."

"Scuttlebutt," Kenny said simply.

Damien looked confused, but Kenny wasn't going to say anything to him. If he didn't know, he just didn't know. Motioning to Damien to follow, Kenny started walking. Where he planned on going, he wasn't sure. He knew Hell had a foodcourt, oddly enough, and he planned on visiting it. It was free, even if the food was disgusting.

"Where _are_ we going?" Damien asked.

"There's a food court somewhere," Kenny replied.

"It's over _that_ way."

Grunting, Kenny reluctantly changed his direction. "This could have been avoided if you just said where the food was in the first place," he grumbled.

"This could have been avoided if you weren't so pig-headed."

In Hell, travel was rather unnecessary. When you thought of somewhere, or something, it became around you. Despite this, Kenny felt the need to walk at least a short distance to another place. Gradually, a large food court materialized around the pair. Bustling with people, the small plaza seemed hellish to walk through. Pushing against multiple fat individuals, Kenny finally made it to the concession stand. He'd never before tried Hell food, and he was about to get his first taste.

"Fries, and a hot-dog," he ordered.

Staring dully, the demon looked down at the cart, then at Kenny. "_No_," it said.

"What?"

"_No fries._"

Frowning, Kenny gesuted with his hand. "Then a hotdog."

"_No hotdog._"

"A hotdog _bun?_" he asked desperately.

"_No._"

"What the fucking hell?"

Damien pulled him away from the cart for a moment, glaring at the vendor. "I should have mentioned..." he said slowly. "Whatever you want, they don't have."

"Ever?"

"Ever."

Kenny paused. "Shit." Kicking red dust up, he decided to go to the next stand. He would ask for food, and whatever they gave him, he would eat. That sounded like a plan. As he walked to the next stand, Damien trailed behind. Stepping up to the counter, he stared the demon down. "Whatever you have," he said sternly.

Pausing, the demon seemed to try and defy some pre-programmed logic. Failing, it turned from the counter, scooping up a paper tray of food and sliding it across to Kenny.

Picking up the unknown food, Kenny walked around the side of the stand. "Finally," he said, taking a bite of the mystery meat. Making a face, he dropped it back into the tray. "Ugh, that's nasty," he said. "I have to throw this out."

"Just toss it behind the shack," Damien offered.

Rounding the corner, Kenny stopped dead. His eyes traveled up and down the man leaning against the back of the building. Lean, lanky, but muscular beneath the earthy clothing. Smoke formed a halo around the man's tilted head as he seemed to be nodding off against the stand. Taking a step closer, Kenny held the food tightly in his grip. A sinking in the pit of his stomach, bile rising in his throat, the blonde closed his eyes. Counting to three under his breath, he opened them again.

The man still leaned languidly against the building.

Choking to find his words, Kenny dropped the paper tray of food, not even noticing as it vanished before hitting the ground.

"Ch... Christophe?"

Jerking his head up, the man stared at Kenny with deep, dark raccoon eyes.

Kenny's mouth dried out instantly. "_Fucking Christ_."

Cigarette falling from his lips, the mercenary pushed himself from the wall.

"Kenny..."


End file.
